Leaving the wheat with the chaff. This is not your mother’s poetry.

Stranger at Mecca

His mouth moves but no words come out
and I am accountable for not comprehending

but the dictum thus passed down is lost
as he is lost for words it would seem,
though I can make out some mumbling
if I listen very closely.

And when his flesh starts to rot from
his pearly white bones and sloughs off
on to the floor of his pantry,
I will be held accountable for his woes.

And when I refuse to accept the dictum
thus passed down, I will be slotted
to burn with the rest, but at least
my meat will stay virile and fresh,
and stuck to my skeleton until
the moment just before it is
burned away.